


back to back

by serenfire



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Anal Sex, Bareback Sex, Blowjobs, Fluff and Crack, Geralt bottoms and tops in this one, Geralt is a service top, God just so much hair pulling, Gratuitous nudity, Hair Pulling, He Has The Range, It's Like the Canon Fanservice Nudity Except It's Equality, Jaskier also tops and bottoms in this one that's how this works, Light D/s Dynamics, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nudity, Public Nudity, Somehow Jaskier is deprived of clothing frequently, Topping from the Bottom, and Geralt pines hard, fucking against a wall, piercing kink, there i said it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22061551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenfire/pseuds/serenfire
Summary: “Jaskier, let’s just get out of Cintra…” Geralt’s words roll to a stop.Jaskier is in the throng of people still left in the throne room, except there is a difference between the others’ dishevelment and his own.The left side of Jaskier’s bardic outfit has been torn from him cleanly down the middle. Geralt can see one nipple, Jaskier’s entire thigh, and a ball and a half, even as Jaskier tugs on his trousers to stretch.Out of a mass of people, he is the only one who has lost any sort of clothing, and his is hanging off him like a billboard for a brothel.(Or: If Yennefer gets to be improbably naked in canon, then I am making Jaskier equally, if not more, naked. It's equality.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 235
Kudos: 3372
Collections: witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> can't believe i'm advancing the rights of nudists with my crack!fic that's chock full of more longing than expected
> 
> and yeah: geralt's the one that pines a lot here. we've gotten a lot of jaskier thirsting over the witcher, but it's time to give twinks love too.

Jaskier is already awake when Geralt starts. Geralt can’t see Jaskier, but the fool is breathing like he just got socked in the ribs and muttering up a barrage of curses that somehow string together a narrative about _someone’s_ mother. Jaskier is shifting, too, and this pulls at the ropes that bind Geralt to him, back to back.

Geralt’s head hurts, as being knocked out wasn’t painless for him either, and all Geralt wants to do is punch the goddamn sylvan right between the horns and then drag him to the village to get at least a hundred oren out of this mess. He’s got to be owed that for damages, at least.

“Geralt? Are you awake?” Jaskier is whispering, hissing into Geralt’s ear. As he strains, Geralt can feel the bard against his own back.

Jaskier is unusually cold and soft—not that Geralt spends a lot of time feeling Jaskier’s spine with his own, but for a summer’s day, Geralt doesn’t feel the usual stuffiness that signifies the wool of a bard’s outfit.

“Unfortunately.”

Footsteps slap on the rough ground outside the makeshift hut.

Jaskier babbles, “I don’t know where we are; I haven’t seen the goddamn minotaur since I woke up; they can’t just leave us like this, all…exposed.”

Geralt stares blankly at the expertly thatched walls of the hut, as in his tied up state it is all he can see. They didn’t seem to be very exposed. What’s Jaskier going on about?

The entrance of the hut is brushed aside, and Geralt shifts to the edge of his comfort and sees the sylvan enter along with a contingent of elves. Interesting.

An elf continues as they regally enter the shack, “Filavendrel, these are barbarian humans deigning to mess with out only source of food. Savages. Torque has done us a great favor in catching them and—” She stumbles to a halt, eyes bulging, staring a little to the side of Geralt.

The elf who must be Filavendrel also pauses, and shifts toward the sylvan, who is also glaring at Jaskier.

“Torque,” Filavendrel starts, “the human wasn’t…like this…when we captured him, right?”

Is Jaskier injured? Geralt strains his head as far as his aching muscles can go, but all he sees is Jaskier’s sweaty, unwashed hair in his periphery. The bard is just cold, and Geralt shifts his body to see if he picks up any more signals from back-to-back contact. Jaskier shudders at the movement, and the back of Geralt’s neck prickles. He can tell Jaskier’s goosebumps have traversed his back, but _why_? There doesn’t seem to be any blood or gaping wounds, and if Jaskier complains about every goddamn splinter he got on the journey, he had ample time to tell Geralt about a wound.

Hell, if they get out of it, Jaskier would probably display that wound proudly to every woman who glances over him for the next fifty years. Hopefully, Geralt thinks, absolutely none of them would react like the three elves and one sylvan currently are, just abjectly staring at Jaskier with mouths agape. Is that a pink tinge appearing on the king’s cheeks?

Torque says, “Must have been…they dragged him over, guess his garb wasn’t up to code…but for all of it to get just ripped off…”

“Excuse me,” Geralt interrupts. The contingent of elves snap to attention, hands on weapons again, poised for combat or execution. “We’d like to go, please.”

Jaskier coughs behind him, and Geralt feels Jaskier resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder. It’s a surprisingly nice sensation. If he just turned, he could bury his face in Geralt’s neck, or breathe in his ear…

The elves are speaking to him, and Torque is arguing in the humans’ favor, and every second that the fucking devil they were hired to take care of defends their lives, the prize money for this job gets metaphorically shoved further up Geralt’s ass. And _damnit_ Geralt wanted a new doublet.

Jaskier’s resting his (aforementioned sweaty, unwashed) hair right up against Geralt’s face, like Geralt is a pillow, but fuck if that isn’t comfortable and doesn’t bother him in the slightest. Except everything about the bard bothers him in the slightest, and he can’t concede on this point.

“Move,” he growls, and Jaskier straightens uncomfortably against him. Maybe it’s the tinge rising in Geralt’s own cheeks—unnoticeable, of course, because of the layer of grime and maybe shtriga blood coating his entire being—but Geralt can feel Jaskier’s ass pressing against his own, smoother than it has any right to be, and still, cold in a way it shouldn’t be.

Geralt ends up babbling to Filavendrel in an honor-worthy dramatic performance that Jaskier would snidely clap at if his hands weren’t currently bound to his sides. Geralt finishes the speech, curling his lips in a bared grin, waiting for a response.

The response he had hoped for was not Filavendrel continuing to stare next to him at Jaskier, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed.

“Well?” Geralt prompts.

“Hmm? Yes. Of course. We need to move out of the mountain if we are to survive, and maybe even consider assimilating. I…heard you.”

Another elf, snarling, brandishes Jaskier’s lute above his head. “If we’re to let them go, can I at least smash this godforsaken screech machine?”

“No!” Jaskier protests. “Please. You’ve already taken my dignity; please don’t take my entire career while you’re at it.”

Dignity? What the fuck is he going on about? “You never had any to begin with,” Geralt mutters.

“Oh, shut it.” Jaskier rolls his hips against Geralt. If it’s to silence him, it absolutely works, and Geralt grinds his teeth to keep any sounds in check that may or may not want to come out.

If Jaskier’s wanton grinding is to distract the elves from destroying his lute, it works as well, because the elf just averts his eyes and thunks the lute on the ground without any heat.

Filavendrel says something to the effect of: “Go, please, so we don’t have to endure this sight any longer,” cutting through the twine that binds them with a sword, and striding out with the rest of the party immediately, leaving Geralt and Jaskier in an empty hut.

Geralt pulls the twine off of himself, rubbing circulation back into his wrists. Behind him, he feels Jaskier pull away, leaving Geralt more bereft than before, and hears him pick up the lute off the ground.

Geralt starts to turn around. “At least you weren’t injured. Humans can be very squishy, especially those of your— _um_. Size.”

Jaskier is missing an absolutely incredible amount of clothing. Geralt didn’t even know how many layers he no longer had on. His trousers are clinging to his upper thighs and general groin area with the strength of half the witchers in Kaer Morhen—and not the rubble it is now, mind you, but like, when it was in its prime. Fabric of _steel_ covers the last vestiges of Jaskier’s privates, and Geralt’s eyes cannot withdraw from looking at Jaskier’s “size.”

He’s decently roughed up too, with dirt and grass streaks across his hairless chest and thighs. There aren’t any injuries more than a couple of scratches, and Jaskier’s face has been mostly untouched, his skin the kind of poreless that the upper middle class pay to have, lips ajar and glistening.

Jaskier discreetly pulls his lute in front of his nether regions. Geralt has the feeling he’s done this before, possibly after being caught in bed with a woman who also happened to be married, in an attempt to not get his dick snipped off by another well-aimed sword blow.

Geralt tries not to think about Jaskier in bed with someone. Geralt fails at this endeavor.

“Huh,” is all he says, and turns to leave the hut. The bard will follow, and Geralt does not want to overtly stare at him, lest Jaskier think he’s anything like the dumbfounded elves.

He gets a couple steps into the sunlight when he hears Jaskier bellowing behind him.

“Why the fuck aren’t _your_ clothes in shreds too?”

“…Rubbing chamomile onto your lovely bottom,” Jaskier quips, whipping a hand towel at Geralt.

Geralt scoffs. Yes, Jaskier had decided to perfume him up, but he didn’t apply an extremely cheap scented oil to him to cover up the smell of months of caked blood for friendship. He did it because he had three orens to his name and couldn’t pay for the witcher any other way.

Although, the experience had been distinctly more pleasant than most witcher transactions Geralt had recently. Calloused, hardy fingers rubbing circles along the corners of Geralt’s body, like Jaskier was trying to get the smell to stick, being way too meticulous and reaching some deep tissue Geralt hadn’t felt since training as a boy. Which might explain why he’s listless now in the bath, not even bothering to bat the towel away as Jaskier dances around him.

“You’re right, Geralt,” Jaskier continues, shuffling behind him. Geralt can’t see what he’s up to. The chamomile massage had relaxed so many tensions, and the close contact had excited a couple of other tensions, but Geralt was a professional. Therefore, he’s just going to lie here.

“I usually am.”

Geralt hears Jaskier before he feels him, splashing through the warm water with bright legs that streak through his periphery vision. Geralt turns around and sees Jaskier, as naked as the day he was born, submerging himself in the bath. With Geralt still in it.

Jaskier turns around and smiles with teeth. “We’re not friends at all. We’re just two complete strangers who are now sharing a bath. As strangers do. You’re right.”

Jaskier taps Geralt’s leg with his foot to accentuate the point, and the water is suitably murky from the chamomile residue, so he doesn’t judge the distance exactly correct, and prods what is much nearer to Geralt’s inner thigh than he would like to admit. So he doesn’t admit it.

“Bath mates,” Geralt agrees, “are not friends.” And fuck, their faces are much closer than he thought, and neither of them are wearing a lick of clothing, and Geralt could reach over right now and feel under the water for Jaskier’s cock, and…

“Turn around, Geralt,” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I can’t have you intruding upon my beauty routine.”

The moment is gone. Geralt obliges, shifting his body until he’s back to back with Jaskier. He’s been in this position before with Filavendrel.

In front of him is a long mirror, propped to give the bath-goers an admirable portrait of themselves as they emerge. Right now Geralt can see the slender curve of Jaskier’s spine, elongated as he stretches an arm over to run soap suds across it that drip down slowly, dripping onto the water and dispersing.

A hand towel flies through the air and knocks the mirror off-kilter.

Geralt turns back and Jaskier smiles at him, now towel-less. “No peeking,” the bard drawls.

That is probably the end of that, Geralt thinks as Jaskier washes and dries himself, all behind Geralt’s back. The offer that may have been given was revoked, and they can’t be anything more than bath mates, or maybe friends.

When Geralt dons the obnoxious silk contraption Jaskier’s found for him and turns around, Jaskier is laced to the nines in baby blue and gleaming. Geralt doesn’t even say anything as Jaskier bats away his hand when Geralt reaches for his sword because, “Queen Calanthe doesn’t allow arms at this banquet.” There is no way that Geralt is going to see Jaskier in anything less than his bardic best, and Geralt is going to have to get used to it.

Pavetta screeches at Calanthe, wraps one arm around her lover, and outstretches her arm. Geralt can feel the burn waft over his arm before he hears the words cascade from her throat, and braces himself in his stance before Elder strikes like a thunderclap over the congregation. Bracing does next to no good, and he is blasted back, knocked against a banister, as the rest of the party flies back to the walls.

Geralt looks around wildly as the wind thickens into tangible strains and picks up every spare thing off of the uptrend tables: butcher knives and bread go flying, narrowly missing his face. If anyone without witcher reflexes were left standing, they would be cleaved in two. As it is, he hears a _shnick_ as it catches some article of clothing, and by the time that the clothing rips in tandem with the Chaos-fueled winds, Geralt is only focused on Pavetta.

He stumbles forward, leaning against the maelstrom, and locks glances with Mousesack. The Elder incantation grows more powerful with every second, and they need to act together for the entire royal court of Cintra to not die today.

Oh, Geralt is getting _paid_ for this.

At his nod, Mousesack throws up a shield and Geralt leaps, springing off strewn table-wood and making the Sign of Aard in the air, knocking the princess and the knight off their levitating rockers.

Calanthe is already at Pavetta and Urcheon’s sides as Geralt struggles toward them, ready to throw the Queen to the ground if he sees even a glint of silver. His adrenaline ratchets up to content with any threat, muscles at the ready, and he’s fully ready to absorb the scents of the battle, but he can only smell chamomile.

Great.

“The Law of Surprise,” he offers, chuckling now. He’s not going to take coin from Urcheon, the poor (former) hedgehog knight. He’s going to take royal coin, but only whatever fucking trinket destiny deigns to give to him from the knight.

Pavetta immediately vomits as if completely on cue.

“Fuck,” Geralt breathes. “Would you all consider that maybe the fetus doesn’t legally belong to the man?”

They wouldn’t.

He’s backing away as Calanthe starts screaming, Mousesack glaring holes in Geralt that also tell him to go. Alright. He can go.

“Jaskier, let’s just get out of Cintra…” Geralt’s words roll to a stop.

Jaskier is in the throng of people still left in the throne room, except there is a difference between the others’ dishevelment and his own.

The left side Jaskier’s bardic outfit has been torn from him cleanly down the middle. Geralt can see one nipple, Jaskier’s entire thigh, and a ball and a half, even as Jaskier tugs on his trousers to stretch.

Out of a mass of people, he is the only one who has lost any sort of clothing, and his is hanging off him like a billboard for a brothel.

Jaskier tucks his lute under his arm and limp-walks until he catches up with Geralt, keeping one hand firmly pulling on his trousers to cover his dick as he moves. As they move out of the throne room, Geralt catches an eyeful of one very round and pert asscheek as well, and decides to stare straight ahead.

“What?” Jaskier says somewhere between the first Cintran noticing his public indecency and the one that started throwing stones at them and making religious symbols. “Not going to ask how it happened?”

Geralt has to be imagining the breathy quality of Jaskier’s voice. The bard is probably so chock-full of adrenaline from almost dying that he can’t control the warble of his voice.

The witcher huffs a breath and continues walking, outpacing Jaskier as the bard struggles to shove his balls back under the half of his pants. And Geralt _isn’t thinking about it_ , but Jaskier is having a very hard time fitting all of his dick under the cloth, which says more about the size of it than Geralt would have imagined.

Except he has definitely imagined it.

Jaskier waddles to catch up. “Come on! Don’t you want to know?”

“I want to know how this happened,” Geralt pleads with Yennefer. She stares back, resolute in her power. “Djinns don’t just attack their masters.”

“Apparently that’s what this one did.” Yennefer gestures to Jaskier, asleep on the mayor’s bed. “He just needs to sleep, Geralt. You’re not going to do any good by hovering over him.”

Geralt almost says: _But it’s my fault he’s here. I caught the lamp. I told him about it. I was the one that wasn’t able to reverse the curse, which led us having to come to you._

Even though he doesn’t voice it, he thinks Yennefer can read these thoughts regardless.

He takes a few steps toward the grand bed. Jaskier is so quiet, so still, like he never is during waking hours and honestly shouldn’t be while sleeping. Geralt’s woken up to Jaskier’s choked-off snores more times than he would like to count, and during their travels may or may not have flicked cold ash across the campfire each time it happened until some landed in Jaskier’s mouth and woke him up as well.

Jaskier wears a monogrammed bath robe in royal purple, which is quite a luxury item for a small-town mayor to own. It dwarfs his frail frame as Yennefer had tried to swaddle him in it, giving him an aesthetic of a formal funeral casket viewing. Except not on a casket, on a bed. Swaddled in a bath robe.

His handful of chest hairs wisp up above the fluffed collar, and Geralt fixates upon that spot of hair. Jaskier looks at peace. Jaskier is healing. Geralt should not stare at the way the robe hikes up Jaskier’s inner thighs and reveals an increasingly darkening trail of hair that continues to go up.

Geralt sits on the side of the bed.

Unlike the prognosis of the last couple of hours, the man is no longer actively dying. Geralt didn’t want to think about this idiot bard dying, but all he could think about as Jaskier choked and screamed in his arms was the eventuality of lying him in an unmarked grave somewhere, sticking two crossed swords next to it, and leaving—alone, now, forever.

Yennefer says something behind him and Geralt turns, his lips meeting hers. Didn’t expect that. He’s not sure what she was saying but if she was trying to proposition him over the prone form of his healing friend, she is probably not going to get the answer she wants.

But he feels a numbness on his lips feels his brain reboot and Yennefer details names of guards who have wronged her and how she wants him to punch that goddamn butcher. Something inside Geralt is glad, even as he completely loses consciousness, that Yennefer isn’t coming onto him and it’s just weird witcher shit as usual.

“Yennefer!” Geralt bellows as he knocks the door down. “You have to stop summoning the djinn!”

Too late. She’s on the floor next to the summoning circle, on her knees, invoking and chanting. An invisible force tangles with her, and Geralt isn’t attune to magic, but he knows it’s the djinn.

The room is in shambles: the mirror smashed, furniture kicked around.

Geralt’s first priority is Jaskier. He rushes to the bed and sees him, bleary-eyed, waking and holding his neck. The wind increases its gusto and Jaskier slams against the headboard with an audible _thwack_ , and the robe tears open a little, revealing more chest hair than Geralt thought Jaskier had.

Geralt sees Jaskier cradling his neck. Yennefer’s healing spell has to be wearing off because, y’know, she’s about to get killed by a djinn. And if her spell wears off, Jaskier dies.

He turns back to Yennefer. “You can’t defeat it!”

Her neck muscles work overtime as her own clothes start to slip in the wind. “I’ve…almost…got it!”

“No you don’t!”

Another burst of wind and djinn force hits and Jaskier hits the headboard again, this time screeching in pain.

Geralt pointedly does not think of any other situations in which Jaskier could hit the headboard. He does not think of this at all.

Jaskier coughs up some blood, it bubbling to his lips, and Geralt actually stops thinking of this. “Yennefer, I’m the one with the wishes!”

“What?” she screams, her dress slipping off her shoulders.

Geralt points at Jaskier. “Not him! Me!”

Jaskier’s robe also starts slipping off his shoulder. Jaskier is too focused on his overwhelming pain returning to notice.

“I have this under control!” She thrusts an open hand against the invisible djinn, fighting against it until she loses and hits the ground, hard, jostling the clothes from her body. Jaskier almost mirrors her, the robe tugging open at the strings.

Geralt grumbles.

Can’t the only other people in the room be perhaps dressed for a fight instead of an extended holiday in the tropics? Does he have to be the only one with any padding left to protect his bones and dick and various squishy parts?

Yennefer’s entire garb is shredded from her in the djinn’s ghostly talons, but her tactic doesn’t change, and this witch is going to kill herself before she asks for Geralt’s help.

But, she saved Jaskier’s life, and Geralt owes her more than he can express, so he’s not going to let her die.

And if she dies, Jaskier definitely dies, and that is unacceptable.

Geralt looks back at Jaskier, furiously forming the wording of his last wish in his mind. It has to have something to do with healing, and thankfulness, and Yennefer, and _Jaskier_. He can make sure neither of them die today.

As he utters his last wish, the djinn disappears with a clap. Yennefer keels over, strengthless, and Geralt checks her pulse. Steady for a human.

He rushes over to Jaskier’s side, throwing bits of rubble and wood out of the way until he can get to his friend, lying on a now-trashed bed, robe crumpled against the floor. All he can watch is Jaskier’s face as his friend presses a palm against his throat and sighs in relief.

Geralt just about collapses. It’s done. The tumor is no more.

Jaskier grins, too, shakily and hesitantly. “Thank you,” he tells Geralt.

“No problem,” Geralt shakes his head. He wants to communicate _I’d do anything for you without needing a word of thanks_ , but that seemed like overkill.

Jaskier reaches down and grasps Geralt’s hair, just holding it firmly in a move of solidarity and recognition.

Jaskier has to be doing it in quiet, understood communion with Geralt, but it _does things_ to the witcher.

Geralt almost preens as Jaskier pulls the slightest amount, and oh he can imagine Jaskier, who is right above him, completely unclothed, dragging him up, fisting his hair, and fitting Geralt down, right on his cock, and Geralt has always been a fan of sex right after battle. His muscles are fired up, his senses are going haywire, and if Jaskier gives him the signal, he would absolutely jump up.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes.

“Yes.” Geralt’s word dries in his throat. Maybe Jaskier is giving him the signal.

“Geralt, I think the ceiling’s going to come down.”

Well. Maybe not.

Geralt carries Jaskier and Yennefer out of the teetering house and places both of them on the grass.

Yennefer does the sorceress equivalent of giving Geralt her business card, and in the corner of Geralt’s eyes, he sees Jaskier putting back on the robe and waving at the locals that have come out of their homes to see what the hell is going on. There’s a lump in Geralt’s heart as he thinks, _At least this is going to make a good ballad for him._

“Geralt,” Jaskier calls out as he enters the cave, “I hope I didn’t miss all the fun.” He cinches the towel around his waist tighter as his eyes adjust and he drips water behind him. Before his eyes can adjust to the darkness, he sees a fucking _fireball_ encase a man, and the charred corpse falls in front of a golden dragon.

Jaskier drops the towel. “Holy shit.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts behind him in that usual unreadable way of his.

Jaskier whirls around. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, and gestures at him with the pointy edge of his sword. “What are you doing?”

He looks down. He is stark naked, and water is running rivulets down his form. “Oh, come on, Geralt. Didn’t know you were such a prude. Besides, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve been naked around you.”

He can’t conceal how his gut sinks at Geralt’s response. The witcher pointedly stares only at his face and doesn’t move an inch below it, and, like, Jaskier _knows_ , but Geralt doesn’t have to _prove that he’s not interested_ , y’know. Bad for the ego.

“Again I ask, what are you doing walking into battle like this?”

Jaskier looks around. “The battle finished as I got here. And I feel perfectly justified in walking into a _dragon’s den_ any way I damn well please. Besides. I found a lovely little river stream right around the corner to have my morning bath in, and maybe I luxuriated a bit before I heard the, uhh, fighting noises.”

Maybe Jaskier’s implying that Geralt could possibly go for a dip in the river stream himself. With Jaskier. As one does. Maybe Jaskier is still trying without a single hope in the world to seduce this man through any means possible. It’s fine.

“You’re impossible,” Geralt tells him, and goes off into a corner of the cave to talk with Yennefer and the golden dragon, who happens to be Borch Three Jackdaws, about what to do with the dragon egg. Jaskier sits on a rock and feels slimier by the minute.

Téa gives him a sideways glance.

Jaskier loops his arms around his knees. “What?”

“You’re…desperate.”

“Thanks. Thank you. For that. Really.”

“Not finished.” Téa squints at him and shrugs in Geralt’s direction. “He’s also not getting it.”

Véa calls her back into the group huddle that is apparently a meeting about the future of all dragonkind now. And Jaskier wasn’t invited to the party. Even though he’s a very important member of the hunting party. He finds this exclusion absurd.

Maybe Téa did have a point, though. Geralt doesn’t get a lot of things. And yes, maybe more things that Jaskier used to his advantage started out as pure coincidences, and yes, maybe calling some of the times Jaskier found himself without clothes a sensual invitation would be a stretch, but like! Jaskier has game! He demonstrated the game several times over the past couple of years! And Geralt did not reciprocate!

Is Jaskier…bad at flirting?

“One last try,” Jaskier tells himself. “One last time. Be direct. And then, if this doesn’t work, I’ll retire to Ban Ard. I always wanted to retire early.”

Geralt seems reticent as he walks back to Jaskier propped up on a stone. He holds Jaskier’s damp towel in hand. “Need a hand with your situation?” And then he pauses.

Jaskier decides _that_ great double entendre is a perfect place to jump in. “Actually,” he says, “I’d love that.” He toes away the outstretched towel and it lands with a flutter on the ground.

Is that red seeping into Geralt’s face? “Jaskier,” Geralt says, and then stops.

Jaskier bares his neck at the witcher. “Geralt.”

“Jaskier. Are you propositioning me?”

“Hmm. I seem to recall you propositioning me, just now, and I…accepting.” Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. Why did he say that. Geralt obviously didn’t intend the meaning, so yes, Jaskier did proposition him, he absolutely _definitely_ did. What is he doing.

“Hmm.” Geralt lapses into silence after his characteristic grunt.

Jaskier leans forward. This isn’t the rejection he thought it would be. “Geralt…”

Geralt looks him in the eyes and Jaskier is floored by the depth of color in his cat eyes.

“Are…you accepting?”

“This isn’t the first time you made an advance on me.” Geralt sounds like he’s working it out as he says it.

“That is correct.” Jaskier places a hand on his own thigh, and sure enough, Geralt’s gaze flickers down to it for a drawn-out moment.

“The bath.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Not only the bath. Are you kidding me? Every goddamn time I’ve been accidentally naked around you in the entire time I’ve known you, I’ve tried _something_.”

“But you mostly didn’t de-robe yourself. Those just happened to you.”

“They may not have originally been intended, but I used those situations to my advantage.”

Geralt hums.

“You know, it only took Yennefer disrobing—what, twice?—in front of you to get her hint.”

Yennefer must hear them, even as she is still absorbed in conversation with Véa, and absentmindedly throws Jaskier the middle finger from across the mountain.

“But all of these times were coincidences.”

“Yes, I _get_ it, I should have cast off my doublet more _often_ and wave it around like a matador’s cape, because you’re such a bull that you can’t see anything unless it’s right in front of you—”

And Geralt glides through the air until he is right in front of him.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, hot on Geralt’s face.

The moment hangs in the air.

“Well,” the witcher growls. “You’re right in front of me now. And you haven’t pulled on my hair yet. So who’s really the one behind the cues?”

“…Is it me?”

“Yes, Jas, it’s you.”

“Heh. Well, Téa was right.”

A crease appears between Geralt’s eyes. “What was Téa right about…”

Jaskier fists Geralt’s hair and pulls the witcher down to meet him in a kiss. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier asks very seriously, “Geralt, is it because you’ve never been with a man before?” 
> 
> Geralt chokes on thin air. “Who do you take me for?"

Geralt throws him against the bedroll in the tent. “All of this time,” he growls. “All of these years. You’ve been taunting me and teasing me and now… now this is all in the open.” He falls on his knees, which hug Jaskier’s trembling thighs, and plants his hands firmly on either side of Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier can’t fucking breathe properly. “To be completely fair, all of this has been in the open for a while now. You just haven’t noticed because you’re too noble for your own good—” He’s cut off with a kiss, Geralt meeting him with ferocity and power and tongue, sweeping down and covering Jaskier.

“Geralt,” Jaskier moans low in his throat, “you’re covered in blood.”

“Not mine,” Geralt assures him, and goes back—he plants kisses on Jaskier’s jaw, swiping across, moving down the side of his neck to his collarbone. Jaskier’s skin is so smooth and devoid of bumps or marks, and Geralt needs to leave something behind to show he was here. A bruise, a hickey, anything. He swallows the smell of Jaskier’s skin—the man owns too many celandine-scented bars of soap—and runs his hands, still gloved, over Jaskier’s back.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says again. His voice is wrecked already, breathy and hitching, and Geralt can feel his heart stuttering through his neck.

Geralt mouths his response lazily into Jaskier’s neck. “Yes?”

“You may have thought that blood comment was disparaging your general appearance. I would— _yes, there_ —never do that. It was a subtle attempt to get you to remove your clothes.”

Geralt growls a rumbling laugh in his chest. “Are we really going to disrupt the pattern where I keep my clothes on and you bare all?” He reaches down and squeezes Jaskier’s thighs, which are equally as untouched as Jaskier’s neck is—well, _was_.

Geralt feels a hand threading through his hair and bunching it right behind his scalp, pulling slightly. Geralt slips into it and lets his head be lifted so he stares into Jaskier’s eyes, which are blown wide. Geralt his sure his own yellow eyes are massively distorted, as his witcher senses are running haywire focusing on the curves of Jaskier’s body.

Jaskier smirks, and Geralt is reminded of that day in an unremarkable inn when a bard draped himself—splayed himself, even—over Geralt’s table and told him he’d be joining his hunt. “Geralt, let’s not pretend that you’re dominating this arrangement. You don’t have the wit.”

Geralt raises his eyebrows, and Jaskier leans in and pecks him on the lips in the second of hesitation. Jaskier’s hands are already tugging at his doublet and unlacing the sides, and his hair feels empty without a hand in it. “I don’t have the _wit_?”

Jaskier pulls the chainmail shoulder pads off, and he’s panting with exertion this time. “Okay,I don’t have the ab strength to do this. Take it off yourself. I’ll be here, showing you what you’re missing while you’re at it.”

And he starts palming his cock in front of Geralt and the Goddess Melitele and everyone. Geralt’s saliva dries in his mouth and he verifiably rips his shirt off, the stained clothes clanging onto the dirt floor of the luxuriously large tent behind them.

Jaskier is lying extravagantly on the bedroll, his legs squished between Geralt’s, but still somehow wide and opening. He runs one hand slowly up and down his cock, and his gaze is solely focused on Geralt’s chest.

Geralt knows what he looks like, and knows what Jaskier looks like, and for a second he feels a twist in his gut as he imagines his own scarred figure next to Jaskier’s soft and smooth complexion. He’s a warrior past his prime and Jaskier is admired by everyone he meets, and chased by most of them too.

Geralt pauses.

Jaskier pauses his pumping, too. “I hope you know you’re not coming back here until your trousers are off, too.”

“Right.” Geralt swallows the dryness in his mouth awkwardly, and he knows every scar that dots his body—well, he’s kind of fuzzy on his back scars, but aside from them—and how they all have grown, red and ugly and thick and protruding—and Jaskier just has a scattering of moles dotting his figure down to his delicious, light-haired nipples and further down to his darker-haired cock.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. Jaskier props himself up on his other elbow and frowns, the lines at his eyes creasing. “Are you doing alright, Geralt? We can put our clothes back on.”

Geralt stares at his shoulder—Jaskier’s unadorned palm touches a rivulet of scar tissue. The man can feel it now, so he has to know Geralt’s hesitation.

Jaskier asks very seriously, “Geralt, is it because you’ve never been with a man before?”

Geralt chokes on thin air. “Who do you take me for? Between us, you’re the one waxing eloquent about the ladies every five seconds.”

Jaskier sounds offended, but his laugh lines are back. “Okay, and?”

Geralt cups his own hand over Jaskier’s, intwining their fingers. “And…I’ve never been this close to a civilian before. Especially not this long. Most people I know want to add to my scar collection instead of touch it like this. It’s new. I don’t want to fuck it up.”

Jaskier’s sitting between his legs now, shifting so he’s fully propped up and chest-to-chest with Geralt. His cock rests against Geralt’s inner thigh, and that makes Geralt start to stiffen, though he’s still in his trousers. But Jaskier is cupping his face and saying, “Geralt, you bloody idiot, I adore your scars and I adore you,” and kissing him, long and deep and tugging on his lower lip like he’s extracting the gasps and _mmm_ s Geralt can’t swallow down, and Geralt’s making noises now like he hasn’t before.

Geralt tugs on Jaskier’s back and presses their sternums together, his own nipples perking and sensitive and radiating a blush that no human can detect but he knows is spreading fast as he feels Jaskier’s own chest, so soft and padded and his own nipples, equally hard, scraping across Geralt’s soft hair. He is sitting on Jaskier’s lap, leaning over, and reaches down Jaskier’s back and grabs one of his cheeks.

Jaskier hitches his breath in Geralt’s mouth, and Geralt swallows it down.

“Not fair,” Jaskier mumbles. “I can’t touch your ass.”

“Then put your hand in my hair again and convince me to get naked.”

And Jaskier is correct, Geralt isn’t good at dominating and telling Jaskier what to do, and staring into his eyes and telling him to do this is sending nerves he hasn’t felt since his first month of witcher work down his throat and radiating through his heart.

“I’ll do you one better,” Jaskier promises, and Geralt can see him with his witcher senses, leaning forward, and he slackens his posture so Jaskier can topple him over, cradling his head so it doesn’t thunk on the ground. Jaskier’s now over him, cock pressing into Geralt’s bare stomach, and Geralt’s in the perfect position to lace his feet together behind Jaskier’s thighs and pull them close.

“That was one better,” Geralt mumbles, but the hand is gone from his hair— _again_ —and Jaskier starts fumbling with Geralt’s belt. His hands shake and he can’t get the goddamn belt open, so Geralt gently removes Jaskier’s hands and works on his own belt with ease.

“Finally,” Jaskier grins.

Geralt stares at him as he unbuttons his trousers and starts rolling them down his thighs. “Stop being smart and start stroking.”

“You’re still undressing.”

“You’re not stroking _my_ cock, genius. I want to watch you pleasure yourself.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s voice hitches octaves. “Oh, you want to watch me.”

“Watch you,” Geralt bites into Jaskier’s shoulders as he tosses his trousers into a tent corner and strips his socks off too, “and feel you against me.”

He’s finally naked as well, feeling the crisp air with every nerve, his dick thickening and curving, bobbing between them. He makes a show of staring down at Jaskier as the man starts stroking again, moving his hand up and down, and as glistening liquid drools out of his cock, Jaskier takes it in his thumb and strokes it back down the shaft.

Geralt palms the head of his own cock, still fully focused on leaning in close to hear Jaskier stutter his breath every time he rolls his hand around the head and back down again. Geralt reaches a leg up and pulls Jaskier even closer to him until Jaskier is stroking his cock onto Geralt’s chest, precome sticking to Geralt’s stomach as Jaskier grows more and more unhinged by the second.

Geralt finally reaches down and guides his own cock next to Jaskier’s, touching the man’s cock for the first time as he strokes both of them together, taking one in each hand and matching the strokes. He tries to replicate the twist Jaskier does at the top, and as the wave of pleasure rolls over his brain, Jaskier digs finger into Geralt’s thighs and murmurs, “Fuck.”

“Just how you like it,” Geralt tells him, and tightens his grip as he goes over the head again. Jaskier tightens his grip, and his fingernails are leaving crescent-shaped indents in Geralt’s fleshy thigh, sending pain-pleasure signals to his brain, and Geralt just wants him to keep doing it.

Geralt grinds his palms down on the heads, scratching them with his callouses, and Jaskier can’t keep his vocalizations quiet, half-screaming into Geralt’s hair.

“That’s it,” Geralt encourages. “Keep going.”

Jaskier starts to move, rutting up and down, digging his cock onto Geralt’s stomach, sliding it back and forth the sticky mess they’re making. He’s making beautiful, undone noises, hot breath in Geralt’s face, and his hands wander Geralt’s body for the first real time.

The first wave of anxiety Geralt brushes away, because Jaskier told him he adores him, and Jaskier is tracing his scars with needy palms like he’s searching for treasure, carefully exploring the taut tendons and bite marks across Geralt’s shoulders, his hips, back to his nipples and the healed yet flayed skin surrounding them, and Geralt’s grip on their cocks slackens.

“Geralt, I’m close,” Jaskier says. “And we’re not even halfway done yet.”

Geralt reaches to Jaskier’s cock and squeezes the base of it until Jaskier’s panting subsides. “We’re not halfway done? What could you ever want to do?”

“Geralt,” and _fuck_ Jaskier’s face is so open, so slack, so red-hot with purpose and lascivious intent, “I want to ride you.”

Geralt’s hips shake at that, and some knot in his gut fires up. Yes. _Yes_. “Wait,” he rasps, as Jaskier leans back.

Jaskier pauses. “No? Do you want to ride me instead? I’m not opposed to either scenario.”

The blush is spreading across Geralt’s entire body now. “Fuck, Jaskier.”

“Yes. Please do.”

“I. _Yes_. Just. Can I make you come first?”

“Why?”

Geralt looks him dead in the eye and says, “I’m not going to last long. Not inside you.”

The moment hangs between them in the air and Jaskier surges in, kissing Geralt like there’s no tomorrow. He pulls back, a bruise forming on his lips, hands stuttering across Geralt’s chest. “That is the hottest thing anyone’s said to me.”

“It better be,” Geralt growls. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes, make me come.”

Geralt uses the extent of his coiled strength and bodily lifts Jaskier into the air and places him on the ledge of a stool, scrambling to get into a kneeling position himself.

Jaskier watches Geralt kneel-crawl toward him, whispers, “Fuck,” and spreads his legs wide. Geralt takes fistfuls of Jaskier’s thighs in his hands and spreads them further, feeling Jaskier’s muscles tensing, holding still, and lowers his mouth on Jaskier’s cock.

Jaskier chokes off a moan above him, and Geralt’s mouth is so full and coating his tongue with salty skin. It’s been a while, but Geralt stills his own throat into submission and chokes down on Jaskier’s cock until he sinks to the root, cheeks hollowing around the veins and burying his nose in Jaskier’s wispy hairs.

He looks up, still spreading Jaskier’s legs wide as he sucks, and Jaskier’s eyes roll to the back of his head.

“G- _Geralt_.”

Geralt guides Jaskier’s hands to the back of his head, and finally, _finally_ , Jaskier takes it and pulls like there’s no tomorrow. Geralt feels settled even as Jaskier shoves him down on his cock, deeper than Geralt went before, and Geralt feels his throat being fucked as Jaskier takes control and moves him up and down.

Spit slides out of Geralt’s mouth as Jaskier moves him at a breakneck pace, not aiming for longevity, just using Geralt for his own ends, and that thought sends a thrill down Geralt’s spine.

Jaskier gives him a warning, a breathy, “You’re going to swallow,” and then immediately keens forward into Geralt’s mouth, his cock twitching wildly. Geralt swallows as best he can, throat working overtime, and Jaskier kind of leans back after he’s done, hands still entangled in Geralt’s hair. Geralt finishes swallowing and slowly pulls off with a pop.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says slowly, his mouth sticking with Jaskier’s come, “I have to fuck you now.”

“Of course, of course,” Jaskier mumbles, and sort of falls on Geralt, pushing him back to the ground and straddling him. Geralt is so hard, and Jaskier is so close, and Geralt clamps onto Jaskier’s ass and pulls it apart.

Jaskier moans, rutting forward against him. “Come on,” he moans. “Fuck me, Geralt.”

Geralt’s hips stutter. “You’re not prepped. Fuck… I don’t know if there’s oil around.”

Jaskier pushes Geralt’s shoulders against the ground and positions himself. “I can take it,” he smirks. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I have experience in this sort of thing.”

“Oh, oh _fuck_ , okay,” Geralt pants, and positions his cock over the curve of Jaskier’s ass. “You sure? Just dry?”

“I’m sure, Geralt, fuck me— _ohh,_ fuck.”

Geralt sinks in slowly, fighting the small resistance that Jaskier gives him, and Jaskier pulls at Geralt’s own ass to shove himself down faster. Geralt lies there, feeling every inch of Jaskier’s hole, buried deep, on edge, his cock encased and tight.

“Ready?” Jaskier asks him, and as Geralt hums affirmatively, Jaskier starts to _move_ up and down, sliding his ass up to the head and burying Geralt’s cock again, lifting his thighs and collapsing them, bracketing Geralt’s form. Geralt places his hands on Jaskier’s hips but doesn’t guide Jaskier, just lets him sink up and down and control the movement, slowly but surely getting more fanatic.

Jaskier palms the head of his own spent cock with his palm, and winces slightly but continues, pushing through the overstimulation until he’s panting again, not over his refractory period, but torturing himself through it. Geralt will keep the fact that Jaskier likes being pushed over the edge in his mind for later, but for now, he’s just paying attention to lasting as long as possible as Jaskier ruts up and down on him, trembling and sweating and oh so pretty.

He’s so close, feels his balls seize up, and rolls his hips into Jaskier. Jaskier clings to him as Geralt fucks him now, slowly and shakily and uncoordinated, as Geralt is too close to the end to build up a good rhythm, but just lets out and thrusts until he feels himself come and his knees shake, his thrusts dying and slowing until he rolls his hips and stills.

Jaskier is the first to move, extracting himself and lying next to Geralt, spent as well.

Geralt stares at him and leans in for a brief kiss. Jaskier is sweaty and smells like sex, and he is oh so delectable.

“Next time,” Geralt promises, “I’ll fuck you til you come.”

“Good,” Jaskier breathes. “Good. I. Can’t wait. I’m. Just so tired right now.”

“I seem to recall you missing the entire dragon fight,” Geralt says. “You shouldn’t be tired.”

“Smartass. You’re a witcher; having to exert actual effort in your job description. I just write wondrous, Continent-famous songs, so yeah, I’m tired.”

“Going to write a song about this?”

“Depends. Do I get to fuck you first?”

“Oh, we’re definitely going to have to prepare for that. I’m not quite as prolific as you.”

“That can be arranged,” Jaskier drawls, smiling. He reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear. “I really do adore you, you know.”

“Jaskier, if you keep saying that, I’m going to speed this process way the fuck up,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier smirks. “Are you going to wife me?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Geralt is smiling now too, from ear to ear. “I do have to sleep first.”

Jaskier slings an arm around him, and Geralt lets it settle over him, warm and calm. The sky is dark outside and he wants to close his eyes and let sleep take him, comfortable and full.

Next to him, he hears Jaskier say, “Shit, we have to walk all the way down the mountain tomorrow.”

Geralt chuckles. “Maybe if you’re nice to Borch he’ll let you ride on his back down.”

Jaskier gets quiet. “Do you think a golden dragon would let me ride on his back?”

Geralt cracks an eye open and sees Jaskier biting his lip, genuinely asking the question. He elbows Jaskier. “No. He has his own shit going on. He’s not going to give you a ride.”

Jaskier pouts.

“Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”

Jaskier leans in for another kiss. “Oh, what a terrible predicament.”

Geralt meets his lips, resting against Jaskier’s head for a second. “I just realized that all of our guides for this mountain are dead. The ones that aren’t dead are still attending to the golden dragon.”

“Does this mean we might actually be able to ride on his back? Because I think the request might actually be considered coming from you rather than me.”

Geralt heaves a sigh. “Yes, Jaskier, I’ll ask Borch if we can ride on his back. Tomorrow. I have to get to sleep.” He turns over, nestling into Jaskier’s side and closing his eyes.

Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt and this is perfect for fading off into a dark and restful sleep. Geralt feels himself fading away, peacefully slumbering in Jaskier’s arms, and then…

“Hey,” Geralt growls, “you packed _this_ _entire tent_. We can’t carry that on the back of a dragon.”

“I’m not leaving this tent. It cost a fortune.”

“We’re not taking it back down the mountain.”

Geralt opens an eye and he and Jaskier stare at each other. Together, they smile, and Geralt goes back and tucks his head into Jaskier’s chest.

“Tomorrow,” Jaskier promises, “we’ll deal with all of that.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt turns around and places both hands on the headboard. He won’t break the headboard. He thinks.
> 
> “Assume the position,” parrots Jaskier in a voice reminiscent of a court jester.
> 
> Geralt immediately releases the headboard and turns around to glare at him.

Jaskier’s bare stomach is showing. Geralt can’t take his eyes away from it.

Jaskier is standing strong on a table, lute in hand, face wide and expressive as he strums and sings for the impromptu crowd gathered in the Velenian inn. He scans the crowd, making brief eye contact with every merchant, farmer, and soldier that paused their gambling and drinking to listen to him crooning about nothing else but the White Wolf.

His eyes brush past Geralt.

Geralt is supposed to be meeting with a client, and the aforementioned client is currently sitting in front of him, tucked in the corner of the bar. He should be focusing on his client, and as Jaskier glances at him, pulling a smile, Geralt should meet Jaskier’s eyes. He doesn’t pull his gaze up in time, still staring at the hint of an expanse between the over-adorned blouse and pantaloons. Geralt thinks that maybe he rolled his shirt up a bit, just to fuck with Geralt, _tease_ him, but that’s not really part of Jaskier’s style, is it. Jaskier goes out for the absolute wanton removal of clothes, and, if Geralt is honest, the other part of Jaskier’s style is for Geralt to absolutely miss that this is flirtation.

Jaskier throws his head back on his high note, and his doublet shifts, revealing the jut of Jaskier’s hip bones. Geralt snaps his attention back to his client and takes a swig of shit beer to conceal the possibility of burning on his cheekbones.

“…My sister Maud went missing after we heard the reports,” his client, the poor herbalist who posted the contract just in time for a witcher to ride into town, “and we believe that it could be related to it.”

“It,” Geralt repeats, running the thought around in his mind as to what the monster the client could be referring to. He may have been temporarily distracted.

“The lycanthrope,” the herbalist says.

“Ah,” Geralt pulls a tight smile. “Quick work.”

“Of course,” the herbalist adds, “she could _also_ be cursed. The day before, the town guard dragged the husk of a cursed maiden into the town center, and you won’t believe what she was cursed with.”

Geralt looks back at Jaskier again. He’s performing his new song, waxing lyrical about the majestical dragon hunt, and he is turned from Geralt’s view. His midriff is still exposed, and it’s nowhere as low to expose the top of his ass crack, but Geralt can see a sliver of smooth spine.

He takes another swig of beer.

It took Jaskier three days to craft a decent limerick about the gold dragon and another three for him to put it to tune, all the while riding in tandem with Geralt as he traversed the south. But through the week that it took for Jaskier to recount their adventure for his own profit, he hasn’t touched Geralt once, or invited him to his room at any inn, or made any advance while they were camped by fires.

Geralt’s kept a stony demeanor, usually reserved for consoling peasants who had lost loved ones to monster attacks or royal squabbles, and if Jaskier doesn’t want to know Geralt any more, Geralt can move on.

He would just prefer Jaskier not flaunt himself to Geralt while he moves on.

But Geralt _knows_ that Jaskier can’t be showing this tiny a sliver of skin for his sake. He can’t be taunting Geralt; Geralt is just a fool who is head over sword in focusing on Jaskier’s every move.

“…The poor maiden had talked extensively with the griffin in the palace jail; do you think it could be a curse passed on by contact?…”

Jaskier finishes his song to a smattering of applause and coin being thrown into his hat-turned-bucket. He bows and says his thanks in a voice breathless by performance that hits a chord deep within Geralt, nestling at the base of his spine, and Geralt remembers Jaskier gasping _There_ and _Yes, Geralt_ , and he finishes his beer with a last swig.

His client notices that Geralt’s drink is empty and hastens to produce a crown. “Refill,” he pushes the crown into Geralt’s hands. “I insist. I have more to explain of this tale yet.”

Geralt nods, grasping his tankard and extricating himself from the table. He sidles up to the innkeeper, and she catches the crown out of the air smoothly and goes to refill his jar from the tap.

Followed by a gaggle of adoring fans, Jaskier stumbles into the side of the bar next to Geralt, and from up close, Geralt can see how out of breath the man really is. His cheeks are flushed down to the neckline of his shirt, and the blush must stop somewhere between there and his midriff, because his stomach is bare of any coloration, but shining in the light.

“Oh, hello, Geralt,” Jaskier says.

Geralt hears the couple of people hanging around him, waiting for Jaskier’s attention on them, and elects to ignore him. Jaskier is having fun on his own, and Geralt won’t take his attention. Jaskier deserves it to himself.

A woman who has followed Jaskier offers to pay for a drink.

“Oh, no thank you, I’ve already got a patron here.” Jaskier reaches out and tugs slightly at the back of Geralt’s hair. He laughs breezily. “Isn’t that right, Geralt?”

Geralt makes a noise that comes out rough. Jaskier’s hand is in his hair, more of a gesturing motion now, but God, he remembers Jaskier fisting his hair and begging, tugging and rutting against him, and he can’t meet Jaskier’s eyes.

There’s a silence next to Geralt and he can imagine that Jaskier is scrunching his face up into an apology to his admirers. Sure enough, Jaskier says, “Give me a second,” and the people, understandingly, shuffle away.

“What’s going on?” Jaskier asks, and his hand is still slung over Geralt’s back, tangled in his locks. And Jaskier is just acting like it’s natural. It’s not natural. Geralt is starting to flush again.

Geralt turns to stare at him, but he sees a flash on the skin at Jaskier’s waist, and his gaze ends up there again. Is there something glinting off of Jaskier’s skin? Geralt frowns and leans in slightly.

“Um,” Jaskier says eloquently, his voice even breathier than post-singing. “Do you like it? The artist in Novigrad offered it free of charge.”

There’s a shiny stud through Jaskier’s belly button, and even as Geralt thinks, _That’s why he’s showing skin_ , his mouth grows drier. He remembers his encounter with Jaskier; he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it, in fact, but Jaskier did not have a piercing then.

Geralt doesn’t know what about himself reacts to the fact that Jaskier has been flaunting a secret piercing this whole time, but his hair is still being pulled, and he wants to lean in.

The innkeeper slams the newly filled tankard of ale back down on the table between them and Jaskier releases Geralt’s hair.

Geralt nods at the innkeeper. “Thank you.” He picks up the cup and looks back at Jaskier. If he wasn’t so stuck inside his head, he would have said that Jaskier’s pupils are more dilated than the average human. “Got to go.”

“Your client. Right.” Jaskier nods. “Got get that coin.”

Geralt doesn’t move. He looks back down at Jaskier’s stomach and, without realizing it, reaches for it and stops short, hand resting on Jaskier’s hip bone.

There’s a long moment where all Geralt hears is the hitch in Jaskier’s breath.

“I like it,” he says finally, and turns back to his client. It’s the first time he’s touched Jaskier since the mountain, and it exhilarated him. It turned him on. And there’s a non-zero percent chance that Jaskier might also feel the same way about him.

But he has to get this contract, so he turns back to the table.

Jaskier calls out behind him, “That’s all?”

What kind of response is _That’s all?_ Geralt is now rethinking the last six nights since the mountain—if Jaskier is still interested in Geralt, then what was Jaskier going to sleep first at the fire, or spending all waking hours engrossed in his song? Is he _that_ interested in his craft?

Geralt takes an entirety of one second to think about this.

The one thing Jaskier is more interested in than the witcher’s legacy is the craft of music. So _of course_ Jaskier has just been engrossed in his music and not uninterested in Geralt.

Geralt swings his legs over the bench. “Jaskier, I’d…be honored, but I’m in a meeting.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow.

Geralt’s client jumps directly into griffin heritage, and Geralt grits his teeth, but somehow can’t make himself turn back to the client and away from Jaskier. There’s some realization growing on Jaskier’s face, probably a mirror one to Geralt’s, maybe: _I guess he was waiting for me to make a move like last time instead of losing interest_ , and opens his mouth in shock.

Geralt offers him a tiny shrug.

The client keeps rambling on.

Jaskier points at him through the busy inn and mouths, _You fucker!_

Geralt smiles.

Jaskier mimes flexing his biceps and, in a clear and unflattering imitation of Geralt, mouths again, _I’m shit at this, Jaskier._

In a too-flattering impression of himself, hip swagger and all, he mouths, _I forgive you, honey bunches_. Then Jaskier straightens up and walks directly towards Geralt.

“I told you, I’m in a meeting,” Geralt says again as Jaskier sits down next to him, startling the client. Jaskier slings his arm around Geralt’s shoulders and twirls a finger in Geralt’s curls, subtle enough so that the client doesn’t notice it.

“That’s unfortunate, because we have _urgent business_ to attend to.”

Geralt glares at Jaskier. “This is my job.”

“And there’s no reason that has to change! You, good chap—what do you want Geralt to kill?”

“A griffin,” the client says.

Geralt interrupts. “The lycanthrope is at fault.”

“Oh, good, you already know,” Jaskier smiles. “And where is this lycanthrope?”

“Edge of town to the north east,” Geralt supplies.

“And how much is this man willing to pay for a trophy of a dead lycanthrope?”

“He’s rescuing my sister,” the client adds.

“Rescuing the sister and bringing the trophy back,” Geralt says. “Five hundred crowns.”

“We negotiated four seventy-five,” the client protests.

Geralt glares back at Jaskier as if to say, _Fuck you for doing this to me_. Jaskier wants to give Geralt the most shit-eating grin. Geralt reluctantly says, “As this man needs my urgent help, you’re now in competition and if you still need my _urgent_ help, I will need to be recompensed more.”

The client nods. “Only fair. Five hundred crowns when Maud is back safe.” They shake on it and the client leaves.

Jaskier curls more of Geralt’s hair around his fingers and pulls his hair back, exposing Geralt’s bare neck. “So we both agree,” he says, altogether too close to the almost-faded patches of bruised skin, “that maybe our communication could have been better?”

“What communication,” Geralt huffs. “It’s not like I thought you had lost interest in me or anything.”

“Lost interest?” Jaskier sounds shocked. He stands, and tugs on Geralt’s hair so the man stands with him. “Geralt, I’ve wanted you to attend to my _urgent business_ for days. So come along. We’re on a time crunch, it seems.”

Geralt’s confident enough that he doesn’t care what any human thinks of him as Jaskier obviously leads him to the upstairs of the inn by the hair, just feels a rising excitement in his fingers it usually takes a witcher potion to achieve. It’s like the extra strength and perception without the palpable rise of toxicity, and Geralt could get addicted to this too.

“And what urgent business could a witcher help you out with?” Geralt breathes hot on Jaskier’s neck as the bard leads the way up to a room, an inn key shaking in his hands.

Jaskier shoves the key in the door and unlocks it, but turns around and leans poised against the door before opening it. “I’m making up for my apparently shit flirtation, once again. Geralt, I’m going to fuck you, and you’re going to think about my fucking piercing the whole time.”

Geralt almost breaks the door down barreling into the room, already pulling Jaskier up into a kiss, already grabbing onto his hips with renewed enthusiasm, pressing his expanding bulge into Jaskier’s thighs as they both scramble to tear their clothing off. It’s easier than last time, as they have practice now.

“Yeah?” Jaskier gulps into his mouth as they rut against each other. The only item of clothing left on is Geralt’s doublet because of the fucking ridiculous lacing. “Is that hot?”

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt groans, moving to Jaskier’s throat. He wants to suck bruises as stark as the ones scattering his collarbone and he wants to do it yesterday.

Jaskier takes a finger and drives it into Geralt’s chest, separating them by about a foot. Geralt stops, his witcher senses on the verge of activating, cat eyes flickering and his vision wavering. Poised. “Geralt, this is a lesson in flirtation. You know how lessons are supposed to go, right? You answer me when I ask you a question.”

Jaskier curls the finger into Geralt’s collar and drags him back. Geralt lets himself melt into the carpet and be manhandled by Jaskier onto the bed. Jaskier inches a knee in between Geralt’s legs, and Geralt opens his knees, Jaskier’s thigh pressing against the head of Geralt’s dick.

Jaskier balls a hand into the fabric of Geralt’s shirt as Geralt unties the last of the lacing and wrestles it off of him. “Answer me.”

Geralt smirks at him. “I forgot the question.”

“Honestly thought you were going to say, ‘No, it’s not hot,’ but that’s not our dynamic _at all_.” Jaskier leans over Geralt, and Geralt falls back onto the bed, which is much more spacious than the bedroll on the mountain and a lot softer. Geralt could melt in it, legs wide, staring up at Jaskier.

“Oh?” Geralt says, and leans up to kiss Jaskier. The man’s own bangs fall in Geralt’s face, and Geralt reaches up to tuck them behind Jaskier’s ears and cup his face. “And what is our dynamic?”

Jaskier freezes a little at that, and gives a furtive shrug. “I don’t know; maybe that’s our homework.”

“You’re taking this analogy too far.” Geralt slides a hand across Jaskier’s stomach and feels the small piece of metal embedded in the man, hears Jaskier hiss a breath. “I assume that this shouldn’t be exposed to a lot of…hmmm…fluids?”

“You assumed right,” Jaskier says, in a manner that communicates he doesn’t know where this is going. Which is unusual. Unless he’s off wooing a figure in the forest that turns out to be a warg, he usually knows what’s going on.

So Geralt surprises him by turning around onto his stomach and drawing his knees up to his chest, clutching the headboard in one hand and tossing a look over his shoulder as he does so. “Guess you’ll have to fuck me in a position away from your stomach.”

“Oh, fuck, Geralt, that’s hot, that’s really no fair.”

“And Jaskier,” Geralt adds as Jaskier is fumbling for oil, pretending not to notice as Jaskier’s hurried grasp shoots the vial up into the air and he scrambles to catch it without breaking it, “remember, you can fuck me, but I still owe you.”

“Owe me?” Jaskier asks, holding the vial of oil in both hands so it doesn’t shatter on the ground.

“You didn’t get to come with me inside you last time. I’m extending the offer again this time.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and rests against the bed. “ _Fuck_. Okay. I’ll see what I can do. But Geralt, right now I want to fuck you hard.”

Geralt just says, “You want to start using the oil or are you just going to keep holding the bottle?”

“Okay, okay,” Jaskier grumbles, uncorking it and pouring it all over his fingers. Geralt controls his breath out as Jaskier enters a finger into him, warm and sliding and sticky. “This good?”

“This is too slow,” Geralt counters, and rocks back onto Jaskier’s finger, pressing to the knuckle.

“Geralt, you can’t call me fucking you with my fingers too slow when you decided not to come on to me at all this past week. I was really floundering for a bit.”

“Don’t tell me you got a piercing for attention.”

Jaskier slides another finger in, and Geralt clenches his teeth reflexively at the slight burn. It’s really been a while, and for a person that lives as long as he does, a while is _a while_.

“I got the piercing because I’m a badass who deserves it,” Jaskier huffs, planting kisses on Geralt’s shoulder blades, up and down the knots of scar tissue that Geralt hadn’t even thought about since that night on the mountain when Jaskier whispered how he adored him. “I decided to _show it to you_ for attention.”

“Could have just gotten naked for no reason again,” Geralt says.

Jaskier slips a third finger in, starting to stretch his fingers in different directions. Geralt’s cock is leaking now, pent up and ready, and the build up is just dragging out the foreplay too long. He just wants a hand in his hair and a cock in his ass; is that too much to ask?

“I thought we were past that. You know, with the sex we had.”

“I _know_ , Jaskier. I was there, too. Are you ready?”

“Am I ready? You’re the one that wanted preparation.”

Geralt arches his back, pushing against Jaskier’s fingers and letting out a punctuated groan.

“Okay,” Jaskier says, and his voice sounds gone. “I get it. You’re prepared.”

Geralt turns around and places both hands on the headboard. He won’t break the headboard. He thinks.

“Assume the position,” parrots Jaskier in a voice reminiscent of a court jester.

Geralt immediately releases the headboard and turns around to glare at him.

“What? It’s not like I get to say that often.”

“And you really don’t get to say that now,” Geralt says. He looks down, and Jaskier is slathering the remainder of the oil all over his cock, from the root nestled in curly hair to the gleaming tip, and he smiles with the memory of it in his mouth, filling him. It’s going to fill him now, again, and he can’t wait.

“It’s like you don’t appreciate my humor any more.” Jaskier exaggerates a sniffle and Geralt feels the head of his cock press against his entrance.

“Jaskier? Please just pull my hair and fuck me. That is, quite literally, all I am asking of you—“ Geralt finishes his thought with a long groan, punctuated out of him as Jaskier slides to the base of his cock in one smooth motion, with a lot more control than Geralt remembered exhibiting when they did this last time.

Is Jaskier better at this than him?

Before Geralt can get offended on his own behalf, he feels Jaskier’s hands—yes, _hands_ —both running up his scalp to grasp two large fistfuls of hair and pulling like there’s no tomorrow. Geralt lets himself be pulled up, the only thing tethering him to his position is the stony grip he has on the headboard. He feels his spine send him patient signals that this position is uncomfortable, and he relishes the feeling of dull pain. His vocal cord stretches, and Geralt can feel his own rumbling down to his stomach as Jaskier starts to fuck him.

Jaskier moves in slow, rolling thrusts, in and out almost to the tip before slamming back down, fluidly and hammering within Geralt. Geralt’s own cock starts bobbing to the movements every time Jaskier thrusts into him, and Geralt feels so fucking full he could come right now. But he offered to fuck Jaskier after this, so Geralt starts the fucking with a hand squeezed tightly around the base of his cock. His cock slaps against his stomach as they rock together.

Jaskier pulls Geralt’s hair when he thrusts into Geralt and slacks his grip when he pulls out, like he’s trying to fuck Geralt onto his cock through his hair—Geralt’s long, glorious hair, a symbol of his longevity and power, used to make Geralt a fucktoy. And Geralt smiles, humming something tuneless that raises in pitch as Geralt chokes out incomprehensibly every time Jaskier twists the last inch in, and it takes a second for Geralt to realize Jaskier is talking.

“I’ma fuck you so good,” Jaskier promises. “God, Geralt, you deserve it, to fill you up and fuck you good.”

“Oh yeah?” Geralt growls.

“Mmmm,” Jaskier moans, hips stuttering for a thrust and returning to normal, as he pants, “You like that?”

“Mmm,” Geralt grunts. “I do. Do you like feeling in control?”

“ _Fuck_ , yes, Geralt,” Jaskier’s hips stutter again. Geralt strokes the head of his cock once, experimentally, seeing if he’s calmed down enough, but it twitches and Geralt returns to squeezing the base. He’s going to be on the edge for a long time.

Geralt pants, openmouthed, as Jaskier pulls his hair again. “Do you like feeling in control of a witcher?”

“Geralt, I like feeling in control of _you_ ,” Jaskier says.

Geralt reaches around behind him and grabs a handful of Jaskier’s ass, pushing him even further into Geralt in that one angle that catches Geralt by the back of his throat and triggers the loudest moan he’s made in a while.

“Geralt, I like feeling in control of you so much, and fucking you is brilliant…” Jaskier trails off, and the wet slapping sounds of his cock are the only sound in the room for a second. “But I also really want to tell you exactly how to throw me against a wall and fuck my brains out, and I’m so close I can’t choose.”

Geralt stills. The wall is currently strong enough to keep a headboard attached as a witcher paws at it, so he can see himself throwing Jaskier against it. “We can do that,” he purrs. “Right now?”

“I’m almost there,” whines Jaskier and pulls out. “I’m so close and I want to come all over you as you fuck me into a wall.”

Geralt turns around and kisses Jaskier again, deep and soulful, catching their breaths in tandem. “Okay,” he breathes.

“Okay,” Jaskier repeats as he calms. “Okay.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt reminds him, “you actually have to tell me what to do to fulfill the fantasy of you telling me what to do.”

Jaskier laughs and Geralt presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Pick me up,” Jaskier says, and Geralt clasps Jaskier’s asscheeks and lifts him off the ground.

Jaskier encircles his feet around Geralt’s waist and holds Geralt’s hair again, and this feels just as whole as Jaskier fucking him did, albeit less breathless.

“Done,” Geralt murmurs as he sucks on a spot right below Jaskier’s ear.

“Walk me to the wall.”

Geralt takes strides to the wall like he’s not carrying an entire human. Jaskier’s thigh rubs against his cock, and Geralt groans. He’s also so close. He’s always so close with Jaskier around.

“Done,” Geralt smiles.

“Okay, Geralt, I want you to listen to me this time, because this part is important. I want you to pull my ass cheeks apart and start fucking me. You don’t need preparation. You don’t need warning. I want you to throw me into the wall and split me the fuck apart. You’re just going to hold onto my hips and fuck me until we both come.”

“And then stop?” Geralt clarifies. His dick gives a twitch at the idea of stilling Jaskier with hands to his hips and only his hips, pulling his cheeks apart as he continues to thrust inside.

Jaskier pretends to think about it. “If you insist,” he says, smiling. “But you have to start suddenly. I want to be surprised.” He presses a palm on the back of Geralt’s neck and draws Geralt into a deep kiss, and then another one.

Geralt waits to surprise him and then slams Jaskier against the wall, hearing Jaskier’s breath smack out of him. He holds Jaskier’s cheeks apart and maneuvers his cock in, pushing in and in until Jaskier is an incoherent mess, and starts to thrust, snapping his hips back and forth in perfect time.

Jaskier almost screams, clawing at his hair and back and pushing against him, but Geralt hooks his thumbs around the front of Jaskier’s hips, which stops Jaskier from twitching against him and forces Jaskier’s legs wide, wider than Jaskier can handle curled around Geralt’s waist.

So Jaskier opens his legs and spreads them wide. He is spread-eagle, held completely still against the wall,legs fluttering and unsupported and jerking each time Geralt bottoms out, moaning and hitching syllables.

“Look at you,” Geralt says as Jaskier closes his eyes. “I’m the only thing holding you up here, and I’m holding you so fucking exposed for me. But you’re the one who told me to.”

“Fuck, Geralt, I’m going to come,” Jaskier says.

Geralt looks down and Jaskier’s cock is dribbling, moving with every thrust, completely untouched. “Open your eyes,” he tells Jaskier.

Jaskier locks eyes with his, and Geralt slowly opens his jaw and hisses, “Come.”

Jaskier bucks as much as he can onto Geralt’s cock, thick roping stripes of come flying out of his cock, and Geralt tastes come in his mouth as it paints his face. It takes some time, but it slows, and Geralt feels the come coat the corners of his mouth. He feels it dripping down his chin.

Jaskier reacts at that sight, too, groaning louder, leaning in, and licking his own come off of Geralt’s mouth and lips.

“You get to come too, Geralt,” he says, his own come now streaking his own mouth, and Geralt takes a couple more unflinching thrusts before his thighs tremble and he’s burying himself in Jaskier. He leans back in and tastes Jaskier’s come on the man’s mouth again, stilling and letting himself breathe as he empties himself.

He lets Jaskier go, slowly, and the man holds onto Geralt as he puts his legs back on the ground.

“Shit, Geralt,” he says.

Geralt pulls him back onto the bed and lies down. Jaskier collapses next to him.

“Are we on the same page about flirting now?” Jaskier asks.

“Hmm?” Geralt turns to look at him. A thin sheen of sweat glistens over Jaskier, one of many marks of a job well done.

“I am and will be flirting with you. You’re free to respond whenever. I don’t fucking regret our time together, and I’m not trying to tell you anything else that it could be mistaken for. You’re great, Geralt.”

Geralt presses his nose into Jaskier’s clavicle.

“Though, if you ever wanted to initiate as well, that would be much appreciated.”

Geralt smiles. “Of course.”

Jaskier tucks a sweat-soaked strand of Geralt’s hair behind his ear. “We’re disgusting right now.”

“Thought you were used to this,” Geralt mumbles.

“Okay, smart guy, maybe I do live like this. Doesn’t change the fact.”

Geralt gives him a look and pulls back. “Jaskier, do you want me to officially initiate a bath?”

“I mean, we do have a first-class room to ourselves, which means there is a lot of water that we could use to fill the bath.”

Geralt leans in and kisses him. “And maybe this time I’ll realize you’re coming onto me.”

“Geralt, I already came onto you.” Jaskier has the smuggest grin on his face.

Geralt huffs into his shoulder.

“Oh? Is that a reaction to my joke?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s not a good joke.”

“But you reacted.”

Geralt laughs and stares into Jaskier’s eyes. Even as they go to fill up the bath and luxuriate in it, he’ll be thinking about these eyes, creased with laugh lines and so happy, as Jaskier stares at him with extreme affection.

“Jaskier,” he speaks up as he steps into the tub.

Jaskier slingshots a towel at him. It hits the side of Geralt’s face and slides down into the water. “Yes?”

“I think we’re going to be stuck together for a long time.”

“Oh, witcher,” Jaskier steps into the bath with him, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you all for giving this work your time and loving comments! i've never had a fic take off like this one has before, and it's been such an honor to realize that i had tapped into a wavelength the rest of the fandom was on with itsequality.jpg
> 
> i think we've come to the end of this fic. i hope you've all enjoyed it! i have ideas for more fics, but i think i've wrapped up this one up, at least for now ;) 
> 
> if y'all want to be notified when my other ideas get written (we need some AUs and if I have to write them then I will) feel free to follow my [tumblr](https://serenfire.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> hope y'all have a good day!
> 
> 1 july update: [squigglyart made a cover for this fic!](https://squigglyart.tumblr.com/post/622437018837925888/) thank you so much!!


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